one page: brisbane

one page:
brisbane
vol i, no i
january 2014
issn 2203-2819
1

contents
billy burmester and alyssa miskin
cecile blackmore and david sparkes
david burnett
billy burmester
charlotte nash
matthew wengert
matthew wengert
teagan kumsing
daniel browne
sam banks
matthew wengert
jane etherton
cindy keogh
alyssa miskin
james wright
caitlin morgan
alyssa miskin
daniel browne
ben gordes
patrick begley
donna kleiss
sam banks
dora hawk
3
4
6
8
9
10
12
13
14
15
17
19
20
22
23
24
26
27
28
29
31
32
33
34
35
this is brisbane
from the editors
brunch for 20
food
a board, a bar of wax, and a pair of shorts
non-fiction
the beginning and the end
poetry
the one you feed
fiction
the ghosts of german station
fiction
the meaning of meanjin
reflection
crème brûlée in brisbane
food
payment
fiction
four seasons
fiction
albion flour mill
photography
esperanza
non-fiction
some things you should know / jesus
poetry
the sum of your things
poetry
dark musings
serial fiction
dust bunnies
fiction
grandad’s greenhouse
memoir
lactocracy
fiction
tuning in and bugging out
reflection
artifiical eyes
non-fiction
edge shopping
shopping
the devil you know
profile
lost in hong kong
poetry
the one page team
image credits
2

this is brisbane
We’re proud to introduce you to a new monthly magazine that will showcase Brisbane like never before. With One Page:
Brisbane, we want to open Brisbane up to the world by bringing together a collection of thinkers, feelers, readers, writers, and
creators.
Each month, One Page will feature concise and evocative stories, articles, photographs, recipes, reports, poems, and art. Every
story has been shaped by Brisbane: its well-documented climate, its unique culture, and most of all, its people. Above all, we
aim open windows into the city’s life and culture.
For our first issue, we have lots of short stories and poems by emerging Brisbane authors; a photo essay feature on the fire at
the Albion flour mill; interviews with artisans and newcomers in the city; and plenty else besides. The first issue is in the format
you see before you. However, we’re working hard on smartphone and tablet apps. Keep your eyes on www.onepagebrisbane.
com.au for news and updates.
One Page: Brisbane is always looking for submissions. If you have a story, article, photo series, or artwork that is based in, or
inspired by, Brisbane, send it to submissions@onepagebrisbane.com.au.
Enjoy, and welcome home.
Billy Burmester and Alyssa Miskin
Editors-in-chief
contact us
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www.onepagebrisbane.com.au
info
info@onepagebrisbane.com.au
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subscriptions@onepagebrisbane.com.au
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submissions@onepagebrisbane.com.au
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@onepagebrisbane
3

unch for 20
cecile blackmore and david sparkes
It’s a Wednesday morning. The barista is steaming milk
with a practiced ease for a couple by the door: his only
customers so far. With any luck, he can duck out for a smoke
when they leave. His hangover is worsening slightly, but it’s
quiet today. This vision of weekday tranquility dissolves,
however, when a lanky young man, sporting a tweed jacket
and Docs despite the stifling heat outside, strolls through the
door, eyes fixed on his half-shattered smartphone.
He takes a seat, oddly, at the large wooden table in the
middle of the room. The barista is puzzled, but gives him
a curt nod of acknowledgement as he delivers the couple’s
cappuccinos and looks under the counter for menus.
When he looks up, the guy in the tweed jacket has been
joined by at least seven others, staring about the café and
chattering happily.
“Are you right for coffees, guys” he stammers, daunted by
the prospect of a busy morning.
Tweed Jacket gives him a peaceful smile.
“We’re right for now, thanks,” he says. “We’re waiting on
a few more people.”
Brunch for 20 began quite innocently. At the start of this year,
a few close friends and I enjoyed a late-ish breakfast at the
acclaimed Spring Hill Deli one morning, where I encountered
the flawless Eggs Benedict. I suddenly realized how limited my
palate had become, and vowed from then on to expand it—
who knew what else could be out there I scoured the internet
from the dregs of Urbanspoon to the wittiest of breakfast blogs,
sifting through tales of burnt bacon and belligerent baristas to
gather a great list of places to try.
Brunchtime became a weekly event as we wolfed down potted
eggs in Woolloongabba and sipped spiced piccolos in West
End. Before all this, food and a catch-up generally involved
an amiable shuffle to the nearest Grill’d or Coffee Club. The
biggest shake-up to this new pastime, however, occurred in the
form of Facebook’s new event privacy settings – all my friends
could see I was hosting ‘public events’ in the form of intimate
brunches, and they began to express their disappointment at
having been excluded. One thing led to another, and the invite
list to a brunch date is now over 100-strong.
Most cafés we visited manage to tick at least two of the three
main boxes: coffee, food and ambience. Sometimes they only
scraped one. Most impressive were the cafés that managed
to display all these things at near-perfection, and, like a good
shepherd, I wanted to get my friends to these places.
Breakfast (or brunch, as we prefer it) has, to some extent,
become the poor student’s gourmet haven. Rather than
nattering over old wine, we wax lyrical over filter coffees and
sweet potato waffles (keep it up, Kettle and Tin). The diverse
collective of tastes means an interesting review by the end.
‘Internet opinions’ are often completely centered on one
or two people’s opinions of a place, and I like to think that
getting opinions from others makes our pretentious remarks a
little bit more grounded.
We have had some interesting run-ins as we grow in number
and notoriety. We were chased out of a New Farm café, after
overestimating its capacity for hungry brunch-goers. Likewise,
many owners come out and are confused by our numbers,
but are pleasantly surprised when we tell them “there’s no
occasion—we just like brunch.” The lovely ladies of the Five
Sisters Art Café were completely baffled by our appearance,
going as far to make a Facebook status about us. The quiet little
4

joint was not quite prepared for us to completely rearrange
the furniture and take over the entire outside seating area.
Another interesting little café that should not have worked was
Sisco, where we literally took up every seat inside the café,
leaving some outdoor space for any other daring customers.
I sometimes, sometimes, take pity on the poor other diners
present around us as we squawk about brunch in a way that
only twenty people can.
The faces of people strolling past a café on a weekday to see
us in there, having a jolly celebration is just something else—
some sort of combination of fear, amusement, and general
distaste when they realize that breakfast is going be a bit loud
today. While the owners tend to be more than pleased about
our appearance, baristas are another story. We follow a few
simple rules—a creed, if you will—to guide us.
Avoid chains with fervour—variety is the spice of life!
Never make a booking—chaos is part of the game
Avoid weekends—chaos is all well and good, but brunch for
20 on a Sunday morning will likely remain a dream never
to be realised, we’re not sadists
Never look back—there is another café out there waiting to
be pillaged.
This is Brunch for 20. Come and visit us on Facebook for
weekly updates on the chaos and to find some inspiration for
a new morning adventure. s
5

a board,a bar of wax,and
a pair of shorts
david burnett
The long-board or ‘Malibu’ is perhaps the quintessential item
that represents California to me. One of first experiences
of travelling in the United States was driving the glorious
Highway 1 or Pacific Coast Highway from Los Angeles to Santa
Cruz. Surf culture, spectacular scenery, sea fog, and images
of surfers riding the edge of the Pacific were the essence of
that trip so it was Greg Noll’s gorgeous yellow board that
immediately caught my attention in ‘California Design 1930–
1965: Living in a Modern Way’.
Within the culture and honour-roll of surfing, Greg Noll is one
of its ‘legends’. Born in San Diego, Noll moved with his family
to Manhattan Beach, California at the age of three. He began
to surf at around eleven, joining surf clubs and later, the Los
Angeles County Lifeguards. He was introduced to surfboard
shaping by another legend of the surfing world, Dale Velzy,
who opened a professional surf shop in Manhattan Beach in
1950, and is credited with being the first commercial board
shaper. Noll was part of the United States Lifeguard team who
competed in the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games and had a
considerable impact on the Australian surfing scene.
In 1954, Noll moved to Hawaii, finishing high school and
continuing to surf. He gained notoriety in 1957 as one of a
group of surfers who took on big waves at Waimea Bay, Hawaii.
The seasonal wave breaks at Waimea can be anything between
nine to fifteen metres and are still recognised as an important
destination for big wave surfing. A short film on this famous
surf spot is available on Youtube.
The board-shaping skills that Noll learned in California evolved
into his own very successful business in the 1950s at Hermosa
Beach, California. He made a series of short surf films in the
late 1950s before giving up surfing in 1969 after riding what
is reputed to be the largest wave ever ridden at Makaha,
Hawaii. Having secured his reputation as the most fearless
surfer known, he turned to commercial fishing in Alaska. With
a resurgence in longboards in the 1990s, he resumed board
shaping and organising longboard surf events. He continues
to make a limited number of boards and replicas for collectors
from his home in Crescent City, California.
The surf board included in ‘California Design 1930–1965:
Living in a Modern Way’ is representative of this great ‘classic’
6

era of surfing when finding and catching waves and breaks was
all that mattered to a generation of young men for whom jobs,
marriage and mortgages meant little by comparison. As Greg
Noll has said, ‘I’m not sorry for being a fun hog for all of my
life’.
The longboard was the original form for surfboards when they
were first manufactured in the United States in the 1920s.
They evolved from the Polynesian and Hawaiian boards made
of solid wood used in the ancient practice of Hoe he’e nalu, a
kind of stand-up paddle boarding. Construction materials for
longboards evolved from plywood and balsawood through to
fibreglass and polyurethane foam. The longboard or ‘Malibu’,
typically 4 to 6 metres in length, dominated the surf scene up
to the late 1960s and 1970s when short ‘performance’ boards
(made famous by renowned Australian surfer Nat Young)
introduced a revolution in style and board manufacture.
Vintage longboards now attract high prices on the collectors
market and have assumed iconic status in the history of surf
culture.
David Burnett is the Curator of International Art at the
Queensland Art Gallery | Gallery of Modern Art.
Greg Noll (b.1937, active Hermosa Beach, near Los Angeles)
Surfboard
c.1960
Polyurethane foam, fibreglass cloth, polyester resin, wood
LACMA, Gift of Matt Jacobson
7

the beginning and the end
billy burmester
auspice
n. a divine or prophetic token; an omen.
A flock of cockatoos is visible from the international space station. A town in the Midwest vanishes from maps and nobody can
recall its name. Neighbourhood dogs congregate around your house and wait quietly, heads bowed. The phone rings late at
night but falls silent as you pick it up. The next morning, you stand at the window and watch a dead bat shake the weeklong
stiffness from its legs and wings. It drops from the wire and flaps away, chopping the sunlight into your eyes like a fan blade.
Your father appears at the front door and calls you a pussy and the blood rushes to your neck and hands, just like old times.
How much more it means than his heedless muttering in a dim ward. You waited him out in there. You sat and watched him
and he did not see you. The sun rose and dazzled you.
as the lightning flashes and the wind rises hot
and fast
we were caught between a levee and a firebreak
we built a barricade out of dead ferns and turbine casings
the water rose to meet the smoke
the city clenched like a jaw
we cracked our fists on the black earth
we cracked our lips in the riverbeds
the fish ate their own tails
the roads crumbled in the sun
we abandoned the dams and the windmills
we folded our clothes and crawled back into the sea s
8

the one you feed
charlotte nash
Sometimes, betrayals are innocuous things. Your friend tells
your secret when they promised not. You hate them for it, but
real damage is slight, so the elders say. No one takes slights
of word seriously here, where a boy is born with two selves.
When every day until the age of fifteen is focussed on refining
the good self and shunning the monstrous self, until that day,
the rite of passage, when the boy enters the stadium and slays
his dark self so the good will become adult.
For Garrick, that day is today. I am nervous. His twin-self
crosses the red dust, far beneath the rising seats. A sheer
wall separates him from the watchers, and above is a ring of
archers. He enters a twin, two boys the same, but only one will
leave. And if the monster is the victor, then none will. I could
lose this friend today.
But no one thinks the worst will happen; it almost never does.
Boys are trained in how to protect their good selves, how to
nurture them with learning. Their fathers pass the wisdom
of their own battles; those with fathers, at least. I finger the
stones behind my back, wondering if I can still feel regret
about that. I wait, but none comes. No, then. I am cured of it.
Garrick, both of him, makes his bows. No one can tell which
is the good self and which is the monster; that will come only
with victory. But I can tell. I know him well.
They each take an edged weapon from their belts, and step
away into the dust, as if they are just to spar. Expectation is
oddly dim here; the crowd almost looks bored. Good, that
is good. They think they know Garrick well. They know he
is the son of the highest elder, the most educated, the most
dedicated. Destined for greatness. This is almost a formality:
his monstrous self should be so weak from neglect that the
battle will be over quickly.
The first blows fall metal on metal. Good-Garrick and monster-
Garrick circle and clash. Dust rises, cloaking their skin, sticking
to sweat. They are soon both red-dust creatures, no skin to be
seen, and only the metal edges glint through the fray. Then,
there is a stumble. One Garrick goes down; the crowd leans
forward. The other Garrick does not hesitate. He drives the
point of the blade through the downed Garrick’s chest. The
downed Garrick jerks around the blade, curled like a spider
on its back, then is still.
My heart fights my breath for space in my throat. My skin drums
with the noise from the stands. The victor Garrick stands
before the applause, a red-skinned version of the Garrick who
walked in. He closes his eyes and raises his palms, salute to the
elders. The archers relax. Then, Garrick retrieves his sword
and strides towards the exit.
No elder moves. They maintain applause, standing now, tears
on some faces. Pride, I believe, for they see the good-Garrick
leave. Passed through the rite, and now to be a man. This is the
great moment for them.
For them.
I do not stay to witness more but descend to the arena level on
the seldom-used stair. Garrick is waiting in the tunnel, and he
brings his eyes up from the dust. We look at each other, with
our black irises reflecting the torchlight. Garrick, so dusty no
one can see the evil marks. Me, with the control I learned from
my father, how to use my mind not to show them. Monsters,
both.
This is the great moment.
I offer the eye lenses he will need to stay hidden. Garrick nods
his thanks. He has learned well in all our lessons, proved
himself skilled at concealment, even from his good-self. And
the good-self never realised another could teach his monster
just as well. My pride burns my eyes when he leaves.
Now good-Garrick lies dead in the dust. The elders will be
slack, not bothering to clean the body of the assumed monsterself.
They will not find the unmarred skin.
You see, some betrayals are innocuous, but others are not.
Words can cut as deep as a sword, and bring death when
spoken wrong. The good-Garrick told my secret and so the
monster has his chance. s
9

the ghosts of german station
matthew wengert
10

How Godfrey Meisner lost his legs. August 1865.
We were drinking wine, Adam and I, for more than a day and a
night, before his woman told me to be gone. She’d had enough
of our foolish drunk talking, so she sent me on my way home
to my own hut, but I lost my way in the night. The bush in
Australia is not like the big forests at home in Wurttemburg,
and it is not easy to make one’s way through in the day. It is
even worse in the dark. I wandered about until I came to a
spot that had been cleared of small trees and long grass. In
the middle of this clearing was a very large tree—this gum tree
as the English call it—that was being fired in order to make it
quick work to fell. It was Karl’s place I was on, so I thought,
and, not wanting to go any more through the bush that night,
I lay down on the ground where the night was made warm
by the tree burning. Thinking that I would find my hut in the
morning after a rest, I quickly fell to sleep. Yet I did not wake,
nor ever again move from where I was lying under the tree.
During the night it fell on me.
You may well wonder at a ghost that does not wander; but that
is me, and here I am. Well, it might be more appropriate to say
this is where we are. For the tree is also a ghost, lying where it
fell: across me. You cannot see me, nor the tree, but here we
are and here we stay, both of us lying together.
You might wonder if that hurt me, a burning tree falling over
my middle, but it did not especially. It was all over quickly,
thank Christ. When the powder flask blew I was already dead,
so there went my legs rolling away from me. Even so it did not
cause too much more pain.
Karl found me. That is, Charles, as he now calls himself. It
must have been very dreadful to look on a pair of legs like
that, and when Karl came closer it was by slow steps with his
eyes fixed upon my broken body... you must understand it
was just the lower part of myself that was in his view at that
moment. I suppose that, if not for my clothes, he may have
mistaken me for a native due to my terrible burns, for what
remained of the upper part of me was blacker than night.
The constable arrived by-and-by, and quickly went away again.
He looked about the place, and kept glancing back to where
I lay. He could not stare at my corpse for long before his eyes
turned away. Karl had the good sense at this time to keep his
distance. After only a few minutes the men went off, and came
back in a little while with Adam.
Poor Adam. It was awful to see his distress. He stopped a few
yards back, then came forward to kneel beside me. His hand
came out, as if to touch me, but there was no skin for him to
feel.
The men went away then returned some time later that day
with a horse and some tools. They labored at freeing my
shattered body from under the tree, using iron bars and a
shovel. Karl and the constable wrapped the bits of me in a
couple of sacks, and a miserably small bundle it was, while
Adam recited something from a prayer book. The anger and
upset of all those men was clear when he told the others that
the pastor could not or would not come to me where I lay,
so I was content with the kind words Adam offered at that
wretched place. He was crying, but he was comforted by Karl
as they took my parts away. I remain here in this damnable
place, with the spirit of the tree that fell over me. Whenever
a person comes by, I try to tell them to mix water with their
wine, and to find rest in their own beds, well clear of burning
trees. Of course, they do not hear me.
I’d give anything for a cup of wine now, but I have nothing to
give, nor ever will again—except for my unheard advice.
The three boys had two rifles—single shot .22s with five or
six bullets for each of them—and three knives, two slingshots,
one hatchet, and no permission to be away from their homes.
They knew better than to fire the guns within earshot of the
American army camp. Despite the continued talk that year in
Brisbane of Japanese invasion threats, on this day the boys
were more frightened of being heard by the Yank MPs across
the creek, who would take them home to their parents if they
caught them here.
“Come on with that fire, will you. My sister could do it
better than you,” Barry said to the younger Wilson kid.
“Well, bloody well piss off home and tell yer sister to come
back and do it better than me then.”
Jim Wilson couldn’t understand it. He was so good at building
fires, but every time he set the match into the pile of dry stuff
it’d burn for a few seconds and then puff out. He thought he
heard something like wind, but he couldn’t feel even a faint
breeze. He wasn’t brave enough to admit to his brother and
his brother’s mate that he wanted to go home. s
11

the meaning of meanjin
matthew wengert
Clement Byrne Christesen published the first volume of
Meanjin Papers in Brisbane in late 1940, when he was 29 years
old, and he remained its editor until 1974. This literary journal,
or small magazine, began with a pronounced inclination
towards poetry, but also included prose articles and fiction,
as well as artworks.
The publication moved to the University of Melbourne in
1945, lured away from its hometown by an offer of editorial
support and employment for Clem. An obituary from 2003,
written for the University of Melbourne’s magazine, stated
that Meanjin was launched ‘in the inhospitable Brisbane
climate’. While that indelicate reference may be partly based
on an historical misunderstanding of Brisbane’s position in
the second world war, it is more likely to include a typically
elitist view of Melbourne as being culturally superior to its
smaller northern cousin––which, even if true, it isn’t nice to
constantly point out. And, anyway, it isn’t true.
The earliest editions of Meanjin were limited to 250 copies,
which grew in the later 1940s to 500 copies. Each edition
contained a ‘Note’ that explained the meaning of the
magazine’s title: ‘ “Meanjin” was the aboriginal [sic] word for
“spike,” and was the name given to the finger of land bounded
by the Brisbane River and extending from the city proper
to the Botanic Gardens.’ Thus, in geographical and cultural
terms, this plucky little literary journal can be taken to be
synonymous with Brisbane’s creative heart. While it might
surprise a southern snob, Brisbane has always had a cultural
edge that is clear and sharp, which Meanjin pointed to over
seventy years ago.
Clem Christesen’s quarterly commenced with bold ambitions,
and quickly grew to include a pantheon of Australian writers
whose names resound through our literary legacy––and
it continues to add new writers to its considerable pool of
12
published talent. Already by the end of its second full year of
publication (1943) it was including American and European
writers of renown.
Alongside the writing sat the artworks by formidable painters
and printmakers, including Margaret Preston and Brisbaneborn
Lloyd Rees. Some of the local writers published in
volume two include: Vance Palmer, Douglas Stewart, Judith
Wright, Miles Franklin, Colin Thiele, and Manning Clark.
Some of these were included in an Anthology published by
Melbourne University Press in 2012, as well as: A.D. Hope,
Mary Gilmore, David Malouf, Patrick White, Thomas Keneally,
Thea Astley, and Peter Carey. With the hindsight of such an
illustrious backlist, it is evident that Christesen’s aspirational
intentions were achieved. The following lengthy quote is from
an editorial note in 1943 (around the middle of the war):
MEANJIN Papers is devoted to the continued development
of a strong and virile Australian literature, with all its
significant marks of “difference.” It opens its pages to the best
poetry and short prose and literary criticism by Australian
and Allied writers. Here you will find the most recent work
by our leading writers, together with the work of our most
interesting newcomers.
Meanjin has been making literary history since December,
1940. No other Australian literary journal is so broadly
based, has attracted such a diverse cross-section of literary
work, or has reached such a wide audience.
For the Catena Collective––publishers of One Page:
Brisbane––the meaning of Meanjin is that a creative project’s
cultural impact and longevity are not pre-determined by either
budgetary or geographical origins. Well conceived and carefully
nurtured ‘products’ can outlive their humble beginnings, and
Brisbane is a great city in which to plant literary seeds. s

crème brûlée in brisbane
teagan kumsing
Crème brûlée is not a dessert to share: fights can turn nasty
over who gets to crack the top, and that’s not ideal on a first
date. Whether it’s called crème catalana, burnt cream, or crème
brûlée (depending on which country is claiming ownership),
it is a classic, comforting way to end a meal, start one, or even
be one all by itself.
Montrachet
224 Given Tce, Paddington
You can’t talk French food without mentioning Montrachet.
The elegance of Montrachet is matched entirely by its crème
brûlée: rich, turn-your-spoon-upside-down thick, and so laden
with vanilla it’s practically polka dot. Classic perfection.
Aquitiane
R2 River Quay, South Bank
Generous portion that is plated to reflect the contemporary
style. Aquitiane’s crème brûlée is served with mandarin
segments and hazelnut biscotti—the mandarin adds freshness
and zest to the already light custard and the biscotti are
perfectly crunchy and sturdy for the dunking. A well-balanced
dish that would suit a first-timer who may not be prepared for
intense creaminess.
Fat noodle
21 Queen St, CBD
Come for Luke Nguyen; come back for the crème brûlée. Fat
Noodle offers Vietnamese influence with Jasmine tea flavour.
The jasmine is fresh enough to compete with the custard, but
it’s the heavenly, floral-but-creamy fragrance that’s the real
pay-off. The soft-set custard is rich and bulging, and served
in just the right portion. The excellent accompaniment to Fat
Noodle’s complimentary jasmine tea.
Willow & Spoon
28 Samford Rd, Alderley
Willow & Spoon were famous for their lavender crème brûlée.
Now they’ve overhauled their menu and they soon will be
famous for their pistachio crème brûlée, served with white
chocolate biscuits. The pistachio is full-flavoured, reminiscent
of finest-quality gelato. The biscuits are sturdy and templeachingly
sweet when dipped into the custard. Not for the faint
hearted, but a unique dessert experience that turns a classic
on its head.
chai crème brûlée
Serves 6
Ingredients
600ml thickened cream
8 egg yolks
¼ cup caster sugar, plus extra for sprinkling
vanilla pod or 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground cardamom
dash ground black pepper
Method
1. Heat cream, vanilla, and spices in a medium sized
saucepan until on the cusp of boiling. Small bubbles may
start to agitate, but do not let cream boil. Remove from
heat.
2. In a large mixing bowl, quickly beat egg yolks and caster
sugar together, until just combined. Add half the hot
cream to the egg yolks, whisking well. Add the rest of the
cream and combine. Pour custard back into the saucepan,
and set it over low to medium heat.
3. Cook custard, stirring continuously, until it is thick
enough to dollop. It should take about 10 minutes, but be
patient and don’t settle for floppy custard.
4. Take custard off heat and decant into serving ramekins.
Place in the fridge until it is completely chilled. Custard
should thicken slightly more on chilling.
5. When ready to serve, sprinkle the surface of the custard
with sugar. The thickness of the burnt crust depends on
how much sugar you use. For a hard, toffee-like crack use
approximately 1 ½ tablespoons per ramekin; for a delicate
crunch use ¾ a tablespoon per ramekin.
6. Blow torch sugar from a distance of approximately 5cm.
You want to singe it gradually to form an even, slightly
bitter crust. Serve as is or re-chill after torching. s
13

payment
daniel browne
Robert gazed dispassionately through the rifle’s scope down
at the street. The cold steel was heavy in his hands; the trigger
felt hard and unyielding. Droplets of sweat ran down his lower
arms as the dying rays of the sun vanished behind the horizon.
Two minutes. Two minutes until the target comes into range.
The target was just visible at the end of the street, moving
hurriedly from car to car like a bee busily pollenating flowers.
Its face was indistinguishable at this distance, but the inevitable
fluoro yellow vest stood out against the twilight.
Dressed to kill.
Robert’s life hadn’t been easy. After his dishonourable
discharge from the army, all he had to show for six loyal years
of service to his country were a collection of scars on his lower
thigh and a tendency to sleep for only three hours every night.
And Bessie. He’d managed to save Bessie.
He stroked the rifle barrel lovingly. Bessie was always there
for him.
The first ticket had been unexpected. He had been five
minutes late returning to his car at Southbank. $82 gone. Not
much money, perhaps, but Robert had little enough to spare.
He could barely afford to renew his registration; he certainly
had no money to throw away on parking fines.
The second ticket had been justified; however, that made it
no less unpleasant. $110 for the privilege of parking on a
white line on a ‘private street’. Robert had paid the fine with
clenched fists and gritted teeth.
The final ticket was the final straw. Another $82 for parking for
too long on a road with no traffic signs because of an invisible
2P parking zone that stretched across the entire suburb.
Robert had tried to appeal, but was casually told “you should
have been more aware” by a bored council worker.
You should have been more aware, he thought as the target
came within range. Works just as well when the power is in my
hands, not yours.
Three tickets. Three tickets issued by the exact same parking
officer. C1198. The number was burned into Robert’s brain.
Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, he could picture
the rat-faced C1198 perfectly in his mind. A slight covering of
stubble over a puffy double chin. Greasy black hair peering
out from beneath a broad-brimmed hat. The aroma of old
cabbage leaves and nervous sweat.
Robert’s muscles tensed as Bessie’s crosshairs played over
the target’s chest. Could this be the one He had been wrong
before. He had only met the officer briefly, on the occasion of
the first fine. There had been an argument. It had threatened
to call the police. Robert couldn’t have that; it would have
broken his parole. So, for the first time in his life, he had
turned his back on a fight.
Robert studied the target’s face intently through the scope.
In his mind, all parking officers resembled rodents. This one
looked like a weasel with its long neck, awkward posture and
beady eyes. He spotted a patch of dark hair poking out from
underneath its hat. Almost without thinking, he pulled the
trigger.
Gotcha.
The sound of the rifle shot reverberated down the empty
street. Robert jumped down the steep embankment then
sprinted across to the collapsed target. He did not think about
the pathetic sobs. He did not think about the way the target
clutched at its throat as it tried to stop its lifeblood flowing
into the gutter. His mind was focused on only one thing:
The officer’s identity number.
Robert rummaged inside the yellow jacket. He ignored the
choking gasps and the blood-soaked hand clawing at his thigh.
Robert grunted as he flipped open the slim, black wallet.
C1140.
“Fuck.” His feeling of disappointment was tangible. Wrong
yet again.
That’s the fifth one today. I have to get going if I’m going to
find C1198. Once the police find these bastards, it’s game over.
Robert hesitated. He looked down into the desperate, dying
eyes near his feet.
“You got in my way, mate. Nothing personal. You should
have been more aware.” s
14

four seasons
sam banks
A streak of white cuts through the empty blue sky, like
someone scratching a key along a brand-new car. The vibrant
shade of blue reminds me of something I’d seen in a magazine,
a resort at a place called Bora Bora. Little touristy huts built on
stilts, peppering the cobalt water, all connected with curving
boardwalks. I’m not too sure where Bora Bora is, but I’ll have
to get Richard to buy tickets there when he decides to retire.
If he ever decides to retire. I can hear classical music playing
from a distant source, one of those tracks that everyone seems
to know. I drift in and out of the peaceful sounds of suburbia,
my eyelids feeling heavy and my thoughts sluggish, as if I’d
awoken from a coma.
I roll my head to the side. I realise I am lying on the concrete
tiles of our patio. On my left is our immaculately maintained
backyard with the pool we never swim in, bordered with
sculpted hedges. On the other side is the house. It’s two
storeys, air-conditioned, and well furnished. A safe, white
neighbourhood. From where I’m lying, I can see the kitchen
and the living room through our large glass doors. Art that we
pretend to appreciate lines the walls, and Vivaldi is drifting
through the panes from our expensive stereo system. I must
have left it on.
A muted ache is creeping up the back of my brain, making
it hard to remain in the sedated peace of my daydreaming.
I have this awfully persistent feeling that I forgot something
important. Like when you go on holidays and you suddenly
think you left the stove on, so you force your husband to drive
the four hours back from Pittsburgh to confirm that, yes dear,
the stove is off. That kind of feeling. Had I left the stove on
No, today was Thursday. I was going to do some chores in
the morning, then meet Cathy for lunch. (Her husband just
left her. Serves the bitch right.) Then, I have my homeowners
association meeting until the evening. I have to clean the
gutters, trim the rose bushes. No, I’ve already cleaned the
gutters. The realisation doesn’t shock me. It just comes to me,
like the answer to a trivia question.
Spring rain had been falling inconsistently for the past week
now, and our roof was covered in leaves and twigs from the
neighbour’s irritatingly overgrown oak. I would have forced
Richard to go up there, but he always gets home so late, and
it was the Mexican’s day off. I’d been shovelling detritus from
the gutters all morning, so I’d decided to look over into the
Warner’s residence, in case there was another juicy morsel of
gossip braising in their dysfunctional home. But I had leant too
far, hadn’t I Then that sickening sense of falling backwards,
my arms clutching at air as the roof drifted away from me. I
hadn’t felt that feeling since going to amusement parks as a
15

kid. It’s something I’ve gone out of my way to avoid since. I
will myself to move, but nothing happens. Something is very
wrong. I look down at my arms, coercing them into shifting,
silently begging them to budge with my stare. Come on now.
My limbs lie still, twisted in the positions they fell in, like a
puppet with its strings cut. I can feel beads of sweat running
down my forehead, stinging as they get in my eyes. I start to
breathe more heavily.
“Rich!” I call.
Of course. He’s at work.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
The neighbourhood remains silent but for the distant roar of
a mower and the thin violins coming from inside. Threatening
grey clouds have begun edging into my peripheral vision.
It’s fine. It’s all going to be perfectly fine. I’ll just wait for Rich
to get home. It’ll be humiliating and graceless as hell, but he’ll
scoop me up with those spindly arms of his and take me to the
hospital. The doctor will consult his charts and, with a dramatic
pause, say “congratulations, you’re not a quadriplegic,” and
I’ll be discharged in time to get to my meeting to stop Martha
from getting that eyesore of a fence. I just hope to God none
of those catty whores see me being carried to the car.
That wouldn’t even be the worst of it. Daisy fucking Peterson,
the cripple from the homeowners association, would be the
worst of it. At least she broke her back elegantly. T-boned in
an intersection, if I remember correctly. I’ve always thought
there’d be nothing wrong with dying in a car crash. Princess
Diana had it right. Sophisticated, sudden, and deliciously
tragic. Not falling off the roof while cleaning the fucking
gutters. I can see it now. Daisy would sinisterly roll up, with
a look of sadistic schadenfreude in her eyes. And she’d say
something like “Don’t worry dearie, it gets easier.” Like I’m
somehow on the same level as her.
He won’t leave me. Richard I mean. Not because there is any
semblance of intimacy or affection between us anymore, but
he’s just too much of a goddamn pussy. It’s an election year,
after all. If there’s one thing voters hate it’s guys who abandon
their wives after they fall off roofs and break their necks. No,
Richard would play the dutiful husband and wheel me out to
press shoots, and I’d say something like “I wouldn’t be here if
it wasn’t for him. He’s my rock” as the flashbulbs burst around
us. Hell, he should be thanking me.
The mower stops. I take this as an opportunity to tear my vocal
cords apart with an earsplitting “GODDAMN FUCK SOMEONE
HELP ME!” My voice cracks and falters towards the end.
The dull ache is leaking through my neurones, sending electric
daggers stabbing into my brain. The clouds are gathering, fuller
and blacker. Typical. As soon as I do some cleaning, nature
decides to fuck with me again. First gravity, now precipitation.
I was acutely aware of the futility of yard work. No matter how
much I try to stave off nature’s incessant march, it’s all just
putting off the inevitable. Fuck it. I’m dying in a car crash, not
like this. With herculean effort I rotate my body onto its side.
Unspeakable, incomprehensible agony. Bone and cartilage
grate against each other, sending sparks of pain bouncing off
my spine. I reach my hand towards the door, feeling like it
was being torn out of my body. I hear a car pulling into the
driveway.
My initial optimism is tempered with confusion. Richard is at
work right now. I wait, craning my neck to see who will enter
the living room. Suddenly my husband and a woman tumble
into my frame of vision, too busy shedding clothes to pay any
attention to the heap lying outside. I recognise her from the
campaign office. Young and bright, she would be going places
once she finished coming. They reach the kitchen, with Richard
concentrating on disassembling the woman’s bra, trying not to
be too distracted by her tongue running along his clavicle. He
ends up crudely tearing the flimsy thing off and propping the
girl on the table, facing away from him.
She knocks over a wine glass I had been sipping from. It
hits the floor and shatters, the red liquid spilling across the
linoleum and seeping into the carpet. They pay no attention.
He’s fucking her like someone hammering a tent peg into the
ground.
He looks over at the window, perhaps hoping to catch a
reflection of himself. The spiralling strings joyously herald his
imminent climax. His ecstasy-full eyes slowly travel through
the glass and widen. He stops mid-thrust, mouth agape and
blinking as he tries to process what’s in front of him. The girl
feels him stop and looks over in parallel, both frozen and
naked in their positions on my once-sanitary kitchen counter.
It starts to rain.
He sees me, crumpled and ruined in a heap on the concrete,
my limbs twisted and my head arching towards him. I give him
a devilish grin.
I’m going to destroy you. You’re going to wipe the shit off my
arse for the rest of your life, you bastard. Good luck bringing
your sluts upstairs into our bedroom when my chair lift gets
jammed halfway up. She can change my colostomy bag while
you fumble for your condoms. You’re damn well going to take
me to Bora Bora, and you’re going to sit by the blue water
with me as we grow old and miserable together. s
16

albion flour mill
words and photographs: matthew wengert
In late November 2013, Brisbane
lost a significant remnant of
its architectural heritage: the
Defiance Flour Mill at Albion.
The brick factory was destroyed
in a deliberately lit fire, and
demolition of the ruins began the
following day. This impressive
Depression-era building, which
had stood on the site for over
eighty years, was gone in just two
days.
17

efore the fire
18

esperanza
jane etherton
On Saturday the 7th and Sunday 8th of December 2013, the
Greenpeace ship Esperanza was docked in Brisbane on its
way to survey the Great Barrier Reef. While here, the crew
opened the ship to the public to show them what life is like on
board and to explain the important work that they do. On the
Saturday I had the opportunity to take part in this experience.
From the first moment I arrived at the docks people were keen
to talk and help us out with any information or questions that
we had. All volunteers, this was a very friendly team.
The crew of the ship are mostly volunteers, as with all
Greenpeace ships, and were happy to show us around and
share the stories of how they came to be working on the ship.
Launched in February 2002, the Esperanza is the largest and
most recent addition to the Greenpeace fleet. The Esperanza
– Spanish for ‘hope’ – is the first Greenpeace ship to be named
by visitors to the Greenpeace website.
Originally commissioned by the Russian government for heavy
ice class and speed, the Esperanza is one of 14 ships built
in Stocznia Polnocna construction yard in Gdansk, Poland,
between 1983 and 1987. The Esperanza was intended to be
used by the Russian Navy as a fire-fighting ship in Murmansk.
At 72 metres, and with a top speed of 16 knots, the ship is
ideal for fast and long-range work. In relation to the work
the Esperanza does for Greenpeace the ship’s ice class status
means it can work in Polar Regions, as well as more tropical
areas.
The Esperanza is a working ship, and because of this, as visitors
we were only allowed into a few select areas, supervised by a
guide. In each of these areas we met a crewmember who told
us about their role on board and some of the work that the
Esperanza has done in the past. Our guide Miriam first took
us to the lower deck (poop deck) where we were told about
the history of the Esperanza and had our questions answered
about Greenpeace and the history of Greenpeace ships—the
best known, of course, being the Rainbow Warrior (the current
Warrior is the third in succession)—and the development of
the work that the ships and their crews do.
Next we went upstairs where we met Jane, and were shown
a short video about the current Greenpeace campaign to save
the Great Barrier Reef from dredging and drilling, the current
campaign for the Esperanza. Lastly we went up another level,
past life rafts and buoys to the main control cabin and met
the third mate, who told us about the controls and how to get
involved working or volunteering on a Greenpeace ship.
It was a fun and informative day out and I recommend taking
an opportunity like this next time one of these ships is in the
area, particularly if you have an interest in environmental
campaigns or ship work. This may be a great way to get to
work on one of these ships and see the world while helping
to protect it.
If you would like more information or to volunteer with
Greenpeace, you can look up the campaigns and local offices
on the Greenpeace website. s
19

some things you should know
cindy keong
Dad hasn’t parted with the old washing
machine. He proudly claims it’s the first
automatic. There’s nothing automatic about it now.
So unless you’re packing enough clothes for the entire trip
the gumboots and broom handle beside the tub
must be used to avoid electrocution.
Make sure you visit the Bobby Dazzler
there’s a 20ft statue of a fossicker crouching out front.
It’s worth the five dollars just to wander the underground
tunnels and escape the blistering heat. I hope you like early
mornings. The bottlebrush is in bloom and the lorikeets flock in
around 5 am for their all day bender. If this doesn’t wake you, Dad will.
Do you remember when we were kids
From our beds we would listen
to the blueprint of morning
heavy footsteps making a cup
of tea, the scuff of brush and polish
on boot leather, the heady waft of his first cigarette.
It’s still the same, still in order.
20

jesus
cindy keong
You would argue that until you were seven
you thought your name was Jesus.
That Dad picked over your transgressions
like a crow pecks at roadkill. Every false move
recorded in sighs of, Oh Jesus!
Trouble attached itself to you
like a cattle tick. At six, other boys
were climbing trees, learning how to ride
bikes without training wheels.
You were smoking cigarettes
inventing excuses for singed fingers
and the absence of eyebrows, the truth
buried deep in blue denim pockets.
Your boyish smirk still appears when we
trade memories like baseball cards:
you recall convincing Mum that crayfish
caught in our local creek were called cunts.
The delight savoured not in the tasting
but in Mum’s proud exaltation when served
at the dining room table.
These days Dad watches you play
with your son, raising him high
on outstretched arms, catching him as he free-falls.
Dad no longer calls you Jesus, but comments on
how your son looks at you like a God. s
21

the sum of your things
alyssa miskin
I am a childhood trinket
from an aunt you never liked
fallen over in the back of a cupboard
the backup pair of ballet shoes
your mother bought
even though you never wore the first
I am the biography
on your bedside table
always almost halfway read
Your grandmother’s tea set
in the glass cabinet
too precious, too pretty
to use
I am the photo on the wall
down too close to the floor
and your expectant jewellery box
waiting for expensive gifts
I am not your favourite cousin
the one who smells of jasmine
Not your oldest and ugliest stuffed toy
that you keep to show your kids one day
I am not even a quiet child
forgotten at the shops
remembered halfway to the car
reminded by a wallet photograph
I am just a used and out-of-style jacket
discarded on the bus
when the weather got warm s
22

dark musings
james wright
Part 1
12 June 2027
Alena walked slowly across the polished wooden floors, leaving
a trail of bloody footprints. Less than halfway across, she leant
heavily against the back of her reading chair, gripping its high
back with one hand and pressing the other to her side in an
effort to ease the pain. The grandfather clock loudly sounded
a quarter to the hour, almost as loud as the beating of her
heart, before subsiding into the soft regularity of its tick-tock.
The two rhythmic sounds, clock and heart, merged together
in her head, marking the passing of the seconds. Not for long.
She swallowed and offered a small prayer to whatever gods
were listening. Please let it be long enough.
Mustering her strength, she pushed away from the chair,
ignoring the red smears against the snowy leather. It wasn’t
her problem at the moment. Wouldn’t be her problem ever
again. Oh, Isaac. Painfully, she shoved the thought away.
Concentrate! Resuming her unsteady stagger, Alena kept her
eyes focussed on the well-worn leather cover of her journal
resting on her desk. A few more metres.
A log within the fireplace popped loudly, breaking her
attention. She twisted sharply towards the sound, collapsing
heavily as her right leg buckled in a new wave of pain. Looking
down, she saw just how bad the wound was. It would be the
death of her, if the equally cruel wound in her side didn’t kill
her first. A wry laugh bubbled from her lips, followed by a
wracking cough. The thrusts of pain flared as the cough
spasmed through her tiny frame, consuming her world.
The clock tolled the hour jolting her back to consciousness.
Awareness of her situation crystallised; Alena realised she had
but moments left before all would be undone.
She went to stand, but slipped in the pool of blood that had
spread around her in the minutes she had lay there. There
was a chill in her limbs, an emptiness seeping into her mind.
Angrily, she pushed it away. Stretching out, Alena dug her
fingernails into the floor, seeking purchase to pull herself
forward. It took time. Too much! Yet, minutes later, she was
able to force herself into a kneeling position at the base of her
desk.
Fumbling hands scrambled across the cluttered surface
searching out her journal. A rain of papers and books fell over
her but she was beyond caring. After an eternity, the journal
fell to the floor beside her. A satisfied, bloody smile flashed on
momentarily, extinguished by the thought that the task was
still incomplete.
Gripping the journal in the blood-crusted fingers of one hand,
Alena stretched herself out towards the crackling fire. The
seconds ticked by as she eased herself across the floor. Not
that it was easy. Easy would be giving up. Easy would be letting
it all go. She set her mouth into a determined line, focussing
on reaching the fire. Easy wasn’t an option. Not yet.
Outside, she heard the throaty growl of Isaac’s motorbike. His
other love. A jolt of panic surged through her, and, using its
drive, Alena groped the remaining distance to the fierce heat
of the fire. Downstairs, Isaac would be fumbling for his keys
with gloved hands, cursing the winter cold and cursing not
having had the garage door motor fixed. A cold of a different
kind crept over Alena, competing with the warmth of the blaze
before her.
Thrusting the journal into the bricked alcove, Alena let the
cold in, even as the heat soothed her. She rolled on her side,
allowing herself to give in. Her eyes drifted around the study,
floating above the details. Trails of blood over the polished
floorboards. The scattered papers from her scrambling at the
desk. The corpse of her life-long friend spread out on the
couch. Nothing mattered, now. It was done. I’m sorry, my
love. I’m sorry. Whether the thought went to her husband,
Isaac, or to the corpse, even Alena didn’t know.
And then, she was gone. s
23

dust bunnies
caitlin morgan
Ellen came to see me today. She brought raspberry friands that
made my throat itch. I can tell how relieved she is to be able
to look in from the outside. When we broke up she helped me
move back into my childhood bedroom and then never called
me again. She sent a card when she heard Mum was sick, but
only out of misplaced guilt. They didn’t get on. I told her that
she shouldn’t care, but it used to really eat her up.
I haven’t been into Mum’s room since she died. Her door’s
been shut, so I imagine that the air in there still holds her scent
and her exhaled breaths. I’m pretending she’s still inside, that
she’s had a big night and will be grumpy if I wake her.
pack of Sobranie Cocktails in her desk drawer. I pick one in
lilac from the spectrum of putrid pastels and wedge it between
my lips. Also in the drawer is a little brown and gold photo
album that I’ve never seen before.
I look at Mum through time; as a baby, a schoolgirl, her first
communion. Then as a debutante, graduate, bridesmaid at a
wedding. Then there’s a family portrait. Mum with a man who
has toddler Meg on his hip, smiling at Mum who has baby me
in her arms. Meg’s first birthday, there he is again. My birth,
our christening. Feeding ducks with Meg. The same man,
riding behind me on a fat Shetland pony.
She didn’t die in there, she died in the hospital: clammy,
frail, and covered in tubes. Attached to machines that beeped
and hissed and breathed for her. Her wild hair cut short. The
vibrant red henna faded to carroty orange and grown out with
long silver roots.
My sister is coming to stay and she’ll need somewhere to sleep.
Her old room is full of junk from Mum’s theatre: broken set
pieces, mouldering costumes, shrunken commedia dell’arte
masks. Meg will want to sort through all of Mum’s things when
she gets here. I want to touch them first.
I’m in. The prevailing scent is mildew. I should open the
windows and let some air circulate, but it’s still raining.
Someone else has been in here. Mum’s crystal ashtray is
empty. All of her scripts have been stacked into a neat pile,
and there aren’t any wine glasses or coffee-stained cups.
Everything looks straightened and smoothed out. There is a
24
I’ve ashed on the bed. The little grey clumps burst in my
fingertips and leave a sooty stain on Mum’s paisley bedspread.
My eyes blur and the pattern writhes like cartoon amoebae in
a high school science video.
Mum had always been so cagey about our father. As we got
older she sketched an increasingly vague portrait of him. He
was an actor. No, a director. They had a turbulent affair during
The New Wave, when everyone was drunk all the time. He
killed himself. Died of a heroin overdose. No, he was gay. He
left her for another woman when Meg was three, and I was
still in the womb. He was married and went back to his wife.
I stopped asking about him when I was quite young, but Meg
used to push her. I see it now. My weak chin and sad eyes.
Meg’s blockish figure. Alan. Shy Alan, who cleaned Mum’s
theatre.
When we’d go there after school, Meg would do her
homeworkand Alan would give me jobs. I’d crawl through
the rows of seats groping in the darkness for fallen coins, lost

car keys or the occasional earring. More often than not, I’d
find abandoned programs, chocolate wrappers, and clumps of
dust. I found a Zippo once, and Alan had let me keep it. Wateryeyed
Alan. Married to Maureen who made the costumes.
The gate squeals and Meg is stomping up the front stairs.
Without a word she dumps her bags, kisses my forehead, and
makes for the electric kettle. It roars and bubbles and steams
and then switches off with a loud click. She sets down a big
mug of tea in front of me. The stegosaurus mug.
“I found an agent, so the house is listed now,” says Meg.
“They’ll come around and put up a sign tomorrow.”
“Great.”
I look out the window and picture a real estate sign with
some grinning jerk on it sinking into the mud. Soon we’ll
have to contend with strangers tracking wet grass through the
house. They’ll look in all of the rooms and think about where
they’ll put their own furniture while their wet umbrellas leave
puddles in the hall.
Meg’s eyes drift around the room, taking in all of the poster
versions of Mum. Summer of the Seventeenth Doll, Streetcar
Named Desire, The Cherry Orchard, The Removalists, Don’s
Party, Mother Courage, The Glass Menagerie, Hamlet,
Dimboola, The Crucible, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Oedipus Rex,
The Tempest. We sat through them all. Meg looks down at my
fingers.
“Why are you wearing her rings Who are you, Norman
Bates”
“I found them in a drawer, calm down.”
“This is too weird, Doug. Christ! She’s smothering you
from beyond the grave.”
Part of me wants to stay here forever, swaddled in her
possessions. The house is going to take a lot of work, and
the garden is dead. What didn’t get scorched in the heatwave
drowned in the ensuing flood. Mum’s hedge of tea roses didn’t
survive. Their lifeless, thorny branches jut out of the sodden
earth at odd angles. Unchallenged, the aloe vera has taken
over the back garden like a giant spiny monster. It’s spilling
out of the garden bed and slowly making its way across the
lawn.
We’re packing away Mum’s life. What doesn’t go to Lifeline will
be left out on the lawn for the vultures.
“I’ll get that.”
Meg dashes to catch the phone before it rings out. She can’t
wait to sell the house.
“Maureen wants to come over. She says that she has a few
things of Mum’s. A punch bowl and a fondue set or something.
Do you want those” Meg calls from the other room.
“Alan is our Dad,” I whisper to my reflection in the
microwave door.
The idea still doesn’t sit right with me. He’s hardly the
impassioned lothario she had us imagine.
“Of course, they’ll probably just end up in the pile for
Lifeline. I’ll call back and tell her not to worry.”
“She can keep them. I can’t even cook a frozen pizza; what
would I do with a fondue set Don’t you want it You could use
it as a foot spa.”
Meg doesn’t want to keep anything. She’d happily build
a bonfire. Mum’s sagging cane furniture and Indian rugs
wouldn’t fit into her lacquered wood and raw stone Bang &
Olufsen aesthetic.
“Maureen. Remember how she used to trap us in those
big woolly cuddles” Meg gasps for breath and itches her face,
shuddering at the memory. I do remember.
“Her breasts were terrifying.”
Meg finds a crown that Mum wore when she dressed up as
Glinda for one of Meg’s birthday parties. She smooths down
her hair and puts it on.
“Maybe I will keep this,” she says.
I’ll keep the album and the stegosaurus mug, but everything
else can go.
By some miracle, the sun is out. The ground is still wet, but
we’ll put tarps down. Today we’ll put all of her possessions
out on the front lawn. They’ll come, and piece by piece they’ll
take her away. s
25

grandad’s greenhouse
alyssa miskin
Think of the most gorgeous smelling perfume you can buy,
and then double the power of that scent. You have almost
come close to the perfume of my Grandad’s orchids. I was
about ten the first time I was allowed to touch something
in Grandad’s greenhouse. I’d been allowed to walk inside it
supervised for a few years, but I had to act like it was a china
display; the orchid petals would fall off if I so much as inhaled
near them.
Dad, Grandad, and I were in the greenhouse, parts of which
were older than me by about forty years, sorting out which of
Grandad’s potted plants would move to the new house. I’m
not sure what kind of system of organisation we were using,
or what the final plan involved, all I knew was we were moving
hundreds of black plastic pots and their precious flowers from
one side of the greenhouse to the other.
I was at the doorway end so I could quickly escape from the
greenhouse air—it was hot and thick with the chemical-burn
smell of fertiliser and compost mulch. I had to duck under
hanging plants and falling greenhouse mesh as Dad and
Grandad dismantled the frame at the other end. Decades
of lost and half-melted toys, frisbees, and soccer balls were
thrown at me as Dad and Grandad uncovered them from
among the pots and polystyrene compost, or fell from their
long-time captivity in the roof.
“Here, Leesa… Liza… Ah, uh, Alyssa-Kate.”
I could never tell if he actually didn’t remember my name, or
if he was joking. He was holding out a spanner on the flat of
his palm.
“Take this,” he wheezed. That was the first time I noticed
he ran out of breath quickly. It was what got him in the end.
I stepped deeper into the mottled greenhouse and looked up
at Grandad smiling crookedly under his floppy beige hat. I
lifted the spanner off his hand and he let rip a massive, rippling,
guttural fart. Think of the most horrible smelling rubbish bin
you can find, and then double the power of that scent. You
have almost come close to the perfume of my Grandad’s fart.
“Nice one, Pop,” Dad called out.
I was not, strangely, impressed when the odour from Grandad’s
pants pervaded my nostrils; I missed the smell of fertiliser,
compost, and mulch. And any time I smell orchids now, their
sweet perfume has a sinister undertone that reminds me of
Grandad’s heavy, spicy, decomposition-scented fart. s
26

lactocracy
daniel browne
Contemporary Australia is a dark and uncertain place.
Democracy has failed us. Children cry in the streets.
Revolutionaries sharpen their axes as they prepare for
inevitable civil war. The very foundations of our government
are unravelling as people clamour for change.
The evils that currently beset our society have their origination
in two words. Two shameful words that should never be
uttered in polite company. Two despicable words that are
dirtier than the most graphic expletives.
Yes, dear friends. I am speaking about lactose intolerance.
By lactose intolerance, I am not referring to people who suffer
from a medical condition that make them unable to digest
lactose. I am referring to the unmitigated and irrational hatred
of dairy products. I am referring to the gangs of thugs that
roam our streets smashing milk bottles, pouring yoghurt into
the gutters and raiding cheese shops. I am referring to the
recent spate of hate posters with slogans like Got Milk No.
I am referring to the gangland-style execution of innocent
cattle.
How can a civilised society condone this behaviour Dairy
products are essential for our physical, mental and spiritual
health. In Norse mythology, Ymir—the ancestor of every living
creature—was suckled on the milk of the great cosmic cow
Auðumbla. To this day, Hindus and Zoroastrians revere the
cow as a sacred animal. And what were the fleeing Israelites
promised in the Bible A land of milk and honey.
Dairy products are everywhere, and everywhere they are
a force for good. Do we not live in the Milky Way galaxy A
school of thought exists that suggests the moon may indeed
be made from cheese. In our formative years we are sustained
by mother’s milk, and milk helps us grow throughout our
lives. For once, science and religion are in agreement—dairy
productsare essential to human society.
We should all aspire to be like Shane Fuller, a heroic Brisbane
milkman who doused a dangerous fire in Spring Hill in 2013
using bottles of milk. In his own words: “The flames were
about half-a-metre high—some of the mulch and palms were
starting to burn. I didn’t have any water so I just grabbed some
bottles of milk and just drenched it.”
Once again, milk conquers evil. If only intolerance could be
conquered so easily. The time has come, dear friends. Throw
away the shackles of democracy and embrace lactocracy. Rivers
will run with pure white milk. Glorious mountains of Gouda
will be reflected in delicious lakes of cream. Puffy clouds of icecream
will rain down droplets of butter across perfect fields of
ricotta. Famine and hunger will be no more. War will cease
to exist once every human being has equal access to dairy
products. Instead of a pointless Prime Minister we will revel
in the oh-so-creamy rule of the Milkmaster General. Forget
jails; criminals will simply be denied calcium. Milk bars will
replace conventional bars and the Milky Bar Kid will become
our national hero.
And peace will reign across this land. s
27

tuning in and bugging out
ben gordes
My casual job slipped from my grasp some months ago,
and it’s fair to say that I have paced myself since then. The
sunroom facing the afternoon sky became my home office,
filled with inexact job descriptions, dusty reference books, and
fleeting inspirations. I brushed up on my grammar. I wrote
my first haiku since Year Eight English. But this flirtation with
educated foppery has developed foibles far beyond what mere
employment can offer. I have discovered my own existential
retreat: a created space, so cosy, so downright affable, that I
can’t bring myself to leave.
The ants gave me the idea. Thousands had streamed across
the wall behind my work station. The arcane pilgrimage
halted for no individual ant, yet the profit from this daily
labour escaped me. I looked for ant eggs, ant food, or even
parts of my landlord’s house on the army’s backs, but their
purpose remained hidden. But then I saw the forest and the
trees, so to speak. I observed that each ant never failed to hug
the next with their outstretched mandibles. The pair would
back up and part ways for a moment, before charging across
to the next individual to offer the same friendly warmth. It
made perfect sense in strong sunlight. Despite the demands
of a greedy queen, an economic rationalist hell-bent on their
subjugation to the greater good of the ‘nest’, the workers got
out every day and cheered each other onward. This army was
just trying to get through the day.
These clambering comrades needed moment-to-moment
appreciation to keep them crossing those exposed expanses
of wall paneling and negotiating the chair-dented wainscoting.
The anxious ants, headed for the distant front, might even
quail in the face of their quest. Surely the frustration would
take its toll.
“Oh God! I thought I was the only one doing this for a bit
there,” they might shudder in their moments of weakness.
Frayed nerves would give way to passive aggression: “Perhaps
someone should have organised this better before leaving the
colony”
Meanwhile, their returning friends would encourage them:
“It’s important to stay positive, you know. The queen is
a parasite, for sure, but we’ve got our freedom once we’re
outside. She thinks most of us are scouting for food.” The ants
would laugh at their laconic sedition. This small section of the
world began to make sense: a thoroughly humane brand of
sense at that.
Later that day I detected a note of desperation in the printer’s
movements, so I watched it as I had the ants. The secondhand
inkjet seemed tired from churning out solid answers
to waffling selection criteria. Sad, dusty, and glaring at the
abyss of obsolescence, the beige box struggled to speak the
laptop’s new jargon. The poor thing clacked and whirred in a
dither, probably in an attempt to look busy and so prolong its
employment. The 2001 Hewlett Packard’s quandary became
clearer through the warm, yet slightly hazy lens of bonhomie.
Now it seemed like a proud survivor of an endless war on old
printers. In its younger days, it had once inspired exhausted
sighs and the occasional thump of the desk under its feltpadded
feet, but now the grey corporal fumbled his rifle,
chewed-up a page in its steam-powered maw, and ended the
performance with a self-appointed smoke break. Even the cat
stops to watch. A LaserJet couldn’t pull that off.
We’re a tolerant bunch here in the sunroom, and we’re quite
happy to extend a warm welcome to all while respecting our
essential differences. But the conclusion that the robot vacuum
has a great many challenges ahead is a unanimous one. This gogetter,
devoted to some mythical work ethic, should discover
some pursuit beyond the sadistic pleasure of choking on cat
hair. The busy-body herds the white furry tumbleweeds into
its little pouch then buzzes off to its charging dock without a
glance at the world beyond its blinkered life. It is both curious
and sad to watch. If there were roses by the vacuum’s roadside,
far from enjoying the moment, its clutching antennae would
blunder through the barbs to pre-empt any further mess from
this “root cause”. And in the name of what: efficiency and
utility Society’s programming can be so limiting. Maybe in
time, and after being fired, the robot vacuum will gain some
perspective on life.
At least, that’s what we’re waiting for. s
28

artificial eyes
patrick begley
Trevor Dorahy keeps a spool of red cotton thread in his
Brisbane office. As an ocularist—a maker of artificial eyes—he
needs to do more than find the perfect shape for an eye and
to match the iris colour exactly. There are the blood vessels to
consider, those tiny, tangled capillaries.
So Dorahy tears off strands from his red thread, sealing them
with acrylic and the heat of a hairdryer against the surface
of the eye. “It’s a piece of plastic imitating an organ, a living
organ,” Dorahy says. “You’ve got something which is so unique
and you’ve got to try to reproduce that.”
Dorahy, one of nine ocularists in Australia, has worked for
more than three decades in a trade he learned from his uncle,
a toolmaker who lost an eye to a bit of steel. While the job
requires no formal qualification, Dorahy works closely with
doctors to ensure the eye is as realistic as possible.
After surgeons remove an eye, they implant a ball into the
socket and attach the surrounding eye muscles to preserve
movement. Commonly the ball is made of coral, which is
porous like bone and allows blood vessels to thread through.
Two months later, the ocularist goes to work making moulds
for the shell-shaped acrylic eye.
Dorahy is in the middle of explaining the delicate process when
his phone rings. He spends 15 minutes talking to a Darwin
woman whose baby has been born with microphthalmia: a tiny,
blind, eye. If the baby needs a prosthesis, he will hand paint it
beside her, constantly inspecting her good eye, applying up to
20 coats of colour onto an “iris button”. Decades of practice
have made Dorahy fast. “I can paint a colour up in 10 or 15
minutes, and usually get it right,” he says.
Harder than painting the iris is finding the right tint for the
sclera – the white of the eye. Older people tend to have greyer
sclerae while Aborigines’ contain more yellow. One client
even had a blue tinge to hers. Harder still is the problem of
pupil size. The dark centre of a real eye contracts and dilates;
in an artificial eye, the pupil remains fixed, too small or too
large depending on the light. The solution Magnets.
Last year, Dorahy became the third person in the world to
incorporate dark magnetic discs into the prosthetic eyes he
makes. In dim light, the wearer places a magnetic ring on his
finger and passes it over the eye. The pull of the ring drags a
larger pupil into place.
Of course, not every client will be satisfied. Dorahy says some
want their artificial eye so perfect “they virtually want to see
out of it”, while others are in denial about their eye loss. “They
won’t even look in the mirror; they don’t want to see it,” he
says.
Sixty years ago, Brisbane’s Ian Howlett was a seven-year-old
chasing his ten-year-old sister with a can of Mortein. That is,
until she picked up a bow and arrow their parents had brought
home, and threatened to shoot if he came closer. “I didn’t
think she would shoot me so I stepped closer, and she shot
me,” says Howlett, a retired English teacher.
29

After five operations, doctors gave up trying to save the eye
and he has worn prostheses ever since, first glass ones, then
acrylic. Do people notice the fake eye “No, not at all,” Howlett
says. Not even the optometrist he visited recently. “He was
saying ‘read with your left eye, now read with your right’. And
I said, ‘I am blind in the right eye. I do have an artificial eye’.”
Howlett’s prosthesis was more noticeable when he was
headmaster of a school in Papua New Guinea. After waking
one morning to find his blue eye had vanished from the
bedside table, he was given a brown replacement by the Port
Moresby Hospital, the only colour they had. “I spent the last
two or three months with one brown eye and one blue eye, as
headmaster of this school,” he recalls. “I must have frightened
the crap out of anyone who walked in.”
For the oldest known artificial eye, awe, if not fear, was the
desired effect. The 5000-year-old semisphere of bitumen paste
was covered in a fine layer of gold, the iris emanating lines like
sun rays. It was found in the body of a 180cm-tall woman,
either a priestess or a soothsayer, in the ruins of Iran’s Burnt
City, a major archaeological site.
The mummies of ancient Egypt were given eyes of copper,
bronze, obsidian, gold, alabaster and electrum. It was not until
the 16th century in France that glass and porcelain eyes were
pioneered, as well as the modern shell shapes. Shakespeare’s
King Lear referred to the new models, commanding
Gloucester: “get thee glass eyes/ and like a scurvy politician
seem/to see the things thou dost not.” In the 19th century,
Germans refined the use of glass and gained a stranglehold
on production, which lasted until World War II. The disrupted
supply from Germany forced ocularists to experiment with the
plastics and acrylics used today.
In Australia, a hand painted, hand crafted artificial eye costs
about $2000, lasting an adult at least five years. Young children
need their eye modified every three months and a new one
made yearly.
“A lot of our clients really become friends because we get to
know them well,” says Paul Geelen, a Perth ocularist for 23
years. He says a large part of his job is dealing with patients’
grief and anxiety after eye loss. “Although we’re not trained
as psychologists, a lot of the counseling that people require
happens while we’re painting someone’s eye, or making them
up a cup of coffee.”
For Geelen, making eyes is the family trade. He and his sister
Jenny took over their mother’s business and now his 19-yearold
daughter Emily is training full-time to be an ocularist. “I
like the creativity,” says Emily, whose favourite task is painting.
“You can’t get the right colour straight away. You’ve got to layer
it thirty times to get the right striations in the eye.”
While ocularists create eyes as cosmetic objects, others are
developing prostheses to restore sight. Australian engineers,
doctors and scientists are working on a bionic eye that
incorporates a camera and a microchip. And in the US,
researchers are developing an eye which will not only receive
light signals but encode them for better communication to the
brain. Cosmetics and technology will inevitably entwine.
For now, though, Trevor Dorahy toils at a small workbench
with his paintbrushes, his silver hairdryer and his red cotton
thread, waiting for an eye to stare back. s
30

edge shopping
donna kleiss
This month:
Jumble sale at St Augustine’s Anglican Church,
64 Racecourse Road, Hamilton
First Wednesday of each month
(except January) 9:15-11:15am
In the middle of Racecourse Road amid high end boutiques
and a multitude of coffee shops, is a little known secret: the St
Augustine’s Anglican Church monthly jumble sale. It attracts
all types of Brisbane folk - retirees, young families, university
students, fashion enthusiasts, and a few charming north side
eccentrics, all keen to snag a bargain.
I arrived half an hour before the doors opened, and a handful
of people had already started to line up. Fifteen minutes later
the line totalled twenty. The anticipation began to build. What
had been stored in those enormous cane trunks I had spied
out the back earlier that morning With just ten minutes to go,
the line had swelled to over fifty, and snaked from the church
hall door out to the footpath. The doors opened right on time.
The veteran jumble sale goers headed straight for the women’s
designer section, hidden away in a small room at the back of
the hall. There you’ll find formal dresses, skirts, and shirts.
All items come from recognisable brands and are presented
in excellent condition. This section is priced from $8 - $15.
Near there, a stage holds the women’s priced section. There
you’ll find medium quality items, including shirts, t-shirts,
pants, shirts, and dresses. When I went, there were also shoes,
scarves and bags. Again, all of the items were in excellent
condition and these were priced from $5 - $8.
The main section of the hall is comprised of overflowing
trestle tables, and a heavy traffic of shoppers. Upon perusing
31
even more items of women’s clothing there, I happily noticed
that there was a surprising absence of brands that are too
commonly found in other Brisbane op-shops—I was able to
pick out a pleasing variety of Country Road, Espirit and handmade
clothing in this section. The clothes on these tables are
once again in good condition and are cheaply priced: you’ll
pay no more than about $3 per item. Nearby is a table of men’s
clothing, although the range and quality is limited compared
with the abundant women’s sections. There is a table of kids
clothing too, although these are generally in baby and toddler
sizes.
I also found that browsing the tables here was a memorable
experience in and of itself. Arms everywhere, colourful blurs
of motion, and the cloth terrain constantly changing. You can
walk the length of one table, find a few treasures and feel
satisfied that you’re finished, and then walk the length again
and find some new gem previously unseen.
For the extreme bargain hunter there is a 20 cent table: an
eclectic mix of last month’s non-sellers and clothes of medium
quality. I incredibly managed to find a pair of Country Road
pants amongst this lot! There is also a bric-a-brac section to
the right of the hall as you enter. Here you’ll find kitchenware,
bags, jewellery, books, and what you might call modern art.
These items are fairly reasonable in price; however, I found
this section to be a little hit and miss, and certainly not as
impressive as the clothing sections.
So, how did I go Well, I saw five of my friends there, one of
whom was a newbie: “I can’t believe I didn’t know about this
before!” she exclaimed. I spent about $14 and walked away
with six new shirts for myself. s

the devil you know
Mathew Makot leaned over and pointed to where the bullet
had penetrated his leg. We were sitting under a shady tree
just outside the state library, on a cool afternoon in March.
Students walked past us, carrying books, chatting and
laughing. It was far removed from the traumatic experiences
he was describing.
Mathew was born in southern Sudan, in the midst of the
second Sudanese Civil War. Fighting had broken out between
the Muslim Arabs of the North and the Christian Nilotes of the
South, a conflict which would end up leaving two million dead
and twice as many displaced. Mathew was only nine years
old when his village was attacked by Northern rebels, where
they killed nearly everybody in his community. His father was
among the dead. Only Mathew and a handful of adults and
children managed to escape.
His father had taught him a skill that made him a valuable asset
– he could drive a truck. “I was given a role to take people out
of war – pregnant women, old people, little kids – I would
drop them at a safe place,” Mathew said. “I was lucky to do
this, as I did not have to fight.” Kids his age and younger were
being trained by the militia to become soldiers, and Mathew
counted himself fortunate that he was not forced into killing
others.
Every day was fraught with danger, and it was only a matter
of time before violence would visit him again. It was just after
midday and he was returning with an empty truck, save for
his two bodyguards. He saw a tree on the side of the road,
and decided to park under it for some shade and a rest. A
cool wind was blowing through the leaves and the long, dense
grass that flanked both sides of the road. He didn’t see the
soldiers in the brush until they started firing. The first bullet
sam banks
32
hit his right thigh, passing clean through. Despite the shock,
he managed to find cover, bullets narrowly missing him as he
lay bleeding beside the truck. His bodyguards managed to
drive him to safety.
Mathew was taken to Uganda, where he was reunited with
his uncle and found refuge in a detention centre. Conditions
were tough, but it was safer than Sudan. The refugees were
given a bucket of food to last them for an entire month. It
was a meagre amount, and he would often have to go a day,
sometimes two, without food for it to last him. After two years,
Mathew’s application was processed and he was flown to
Australia in 2007. Many of his fellow detainees were not so
lucky. “I met many people who had been staying there for
twenty years,” Mathew recalled. “Some of the people my age
were born there. They know no other home.”
Outside the State Library in Brisbane, Mathew was describing
the completely new world he faced once he got to Australia.
Without knowing a word of English, Mathew started school in
year 9, struggling to do assignments and interact with the other
students. He persevered, and with the support of teachers and
community groups he steadily improved. He began taking
public speaking classes, even participating in an Australia-wide
speaking competition. He chose to talk about issues relating
to refugees, and was flown to Canberra to receive an award.
Last year Mathew graduated with a diploma of justice studies.
He was fascinated with learning about the nature of conflict
and how the justice system operates. This year he will be
studying law, and he hopes that one day he will become the
UN secretary general. “This is a time for us to bring peace in
the world. This is what I intend to do,” Mathew said. “I want to
talk to young people, especially in Australia, because they live
in a democracy, they are living in a freedom. They have never
experienced war, but to me, I know war is not an option.”
Under the dappled shade of the tree, looking up at the
beautiful architecture of the library, and the delicious food
being brought out to a smiling group of friends at the nearby
cafe, you could see how easy it could be to forget how fortunate
we are, and how terrible life can be on the other side of the
globe. Mathew was lucky. There are many more who are being
persecuted by their government, wasting away in camps and
drowning at sea in the act of trying to find a better life.
“If my country was in peace, I wouldn’t have left it. You
wouldn’t leave Australia. The Australian government can deal
with refugees in a way so they don’t treat them badly. A better
solution will be found later. But just keep carrying on treating
them well as a human being. If we don’t do that, it will come
back to hurt us.” s

lost in hong kong
dora hawk
I got lost in Kowloon on my way back to my hotel
and you messaged me to tell me that you
should have walked me home but you
had to meet your mum on the early
morning train from Guangzhou.
You taught me the Chinese word for kiss
in the back of a cab on our way back to our
hotel on our one day trip to Macaw only to find
out that you took your future wife to the same
restaurant we had our first date and the same
hotel we had our first valentine.
You said you were leaving
for Germany and I asked you if were going
to learn German but you said you were too old
to learn another language but I didn’t believe
you because I couldn’t believe that you would
steal all my hope of love or of being loved by telling
me that I shouldn’t believe in love while telling
me that I have beautiful eyes while we lie
in a dark room with our backs turned.
And I hated you so much but I could never
admit it so I went to Melbourne for
Easter and I learnt how to snowboard
in winter so I could do all the things
that you wanted to do but never did
because you found yourself someone.
Then one day someone came to stay and he
made no promises that he would stay but he
turned all your beautiful lies into stories and he
wooed me not with heartbreak but with smiles and he
filled my days with sunflowers and tortoises and he
turned all the things that you were into a jigsaw and he
cast them all away until he was all that remained. s
33

the one page team
Sam Banks has written for a number
of publications including Scene, Rave,
and Polaroids of Androids, and he is
currently studying a Masters of Writing,
Editing, and Publishing.
Teagan Kumsing is an aspiring editor
of words who has a Masters in Writing,
Editing, and Publishing. She enjoys plain
language and magnificent organisation.
Elise Bianchi, driven by the joys of editing
and translation, enjoys contributing to
One Page: Brisbane with her passion for
language and tea and cats and space.
Nobody has ever seen Daniel Browne.
Some say he is the Stig. Some say he is
Banksy. Some say he doesn’t actually
exist. They are all wrong.
Billy Burmester was born in Brisbane,
read books and played video games for
26 years, and then got his Masters in
writing and editing. He likes reading,
writing, burgers, the Internet, fixing
problems, and you.
Stephanie McLeay misspent her youth
and eyesight deep in a terrifyingly
indiscriminate range of books, and now
lays claim to a brain full of mostly useless
facts, entirely useless fiction, and the full
range of optic impairment.
Alyssa Miskin is a creative writer and
editor with a passion for beautiful use of
language. She has a Bachelor of Creative
Arts in writing and is currently working
towards a Masters of Arts in Writing,
Editing, and Publishing.
Caitlin Morgan is an artful dabbler who
is rounding off her qualifications in
Psychology, Philosophy, Printmaking,
and Photography with a Masters in
Publishing.
Jane Etherton is an avid reader with
qualifications in Archaeology, Heritage
Management, Tourism, Education, and
Art History. Her love of the beach has led
to a research project on surf writing for
her Masters degree.
His journalism bridges ablaze, Ben
Gordes abandoned the profession and
became a carpenter. He is currently
working on his novel, The Daily
Anarchist, and wondering if society will
ever forgive him.
Megan Porter is a part-time nurse, parttime
writer/editor, and full-time sciencefiction
nerd. She is currently planning
an awesome thesis for The University of
Queensland to get her Master of Arts in
mid-2014.
Matthew Wengert has worked as a
researcher, tutor, and video editor at two
Brisbane universities, and as a researcher
for independent documentaries. He
believes that while truth is often stranger
than fiction, it is rarely as much fun.
A prolific blogger, dreamer, and poet,
Dora Hawk observes and documents
the human condition. She collects Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland in between
learning languages and defending hip
hop.
34
Having worked, as a military officer, public
servant, international liaison officer,
delivery driver, business consultant,
security guard, teacher, and personal
trainer, James Wright is now hoping to
find employment as an adventurer.

image credits
cecile blackmore and david sparkes
matthew wengert
brendan mcintyre
matthew wengert
teagan kumsing
caitilin morgan
jane etherton
lennon steele
alyssa miskin
caitlin morgan
donna kleiss
sam banks
billy burmester
4-5
6-7
10
12
13
15
19
24
26
29-30
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brunch for 20
a board, a bar of wax, and a pair of shorts
the ghosts of german station
the meaning of meanjin
crème brûlée in brisbane
four seasons
esperanza
dust bunnies
grandad’s greenhouse
artificial eyes
edge shopping
the devil you know
cover image: “brisbanite”
one page:
brisbane
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